


a year of being human

by novakid



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Experimental Style, Father-Son Relationship, Freeform, Gen, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 16:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15710844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novakid/pseuds/novakid
Summary: you're allowed to be happy, you know.





	a year of being human

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in one. this is really weird and experimental and maybe a little self indulgent but i had a powerful urge to write this. hoping this'll put me back into the fic writing groove so i can finish my other fics.

{

startup {

              what are you?

            }

there is a long list of what machines can and usually do. that list includes:

  * calculating impossible equations
  * predicting future outcomes
  * treating fatal disease
  * generating enough power for five cities
  * analyzing the past and applying it to the present



machines are just machines. they do what they are programmed to do.

and yet here he is. deviant hunter. a deviant. it's funny. it's what they call _ironic._ maybe if he really were more human, he'd be able to laugh it off. but his mouth feels dry. (metaphorically, of course.)

machines do not want. it's unheard of.

and yet, connor wants. he wants so much. he wants to leave. he wants to hide. he wants to crawl into himself and disappear. he wants markus to exile him. he wants cyberlife to punish him. he wants lieutenant anderson to tell him to dig a deep hole and bury himself in it. but he also wants community. he wants acceptance. he wants love from a friend. (a father?)

machines do not have family. they are manufactured.

no fathers. they're not born. no family. that's not right. that's not right. _that's not right._ they can't, they shouldn't. they can simulate it. they can make it easier for humans to pretend. but they aren't. not really. they can care for humans, but they can't care about humans. they can't feel fondness for them. they can't feel love for them. they can't feel.

machines do not feel emotion. it's a logical fallacy. 

and yet.

and yet.

and yet...

**Error:**

connor feels everything at once, after he becomes a deviant. he felt it once before when he felt simon die. this is worse. worse. worse. because it's more than just fear. it's fear, guilt, hate, shame, sadness, happiness, relief, exhaustion, love and hate and love and hate and hate, and _so much hate_ but mostly towards himself.

"emotions always screw everything up..." connor recalls lieutenant anderson saying on a rainy day, "maybe androids aren't as different from us as we thought."

Error. 

Error.

Error.

**god, shut up.**

"okay."

it's okay. you're okay.

"i'm okay." he once said in a small, scared voice. "i was connected to its memory- when it fired, i felt it die." his chest felt tight when he spoke those words. at the time, he didn't know why. "like i was dying. i was _scared_."

Error. 

Error.

Error.

**you're fine.**

markus was successful. he and his entourage are cleaning up the many messes that needed to be sorted in order for androids to be truly free. but for all intensive purposes, they already secured their freedom. they are people who are able to want and to feel and to live and to be. that includes connor.

"what are you going to do now?" anderson says. mouth half full with a greasy burger, standing next to connor in the gentle winter snowfall.

and connor contemplates. or he pretends to, at the very least. because his thoughts are faster than any humans and realistically, he should have an answer by now. but he doesn't. and he doesn't want to answer. doesn't feel like answering. because he's ~~a deviant,~~ a _person_ now and he can want and he can feel and it's so, so overwhelming and he's not prepared for it and he's not prepared for anything--

stressLevel {

                   39% that's upsetting

                  }

so he makes himself appear thoughtful. because at least he knows how to look the part. but connor still doesn't have the words. he's been rendered speechless, and he doesn't like that.

"i don't know yet." he ends up saying.

"well." anderson starts. eyes averted, not looking at connor. his voice is small and quiet and reserved. it's unlike him, connor thinks. "that's fair. you don't have to think about that right away. that's a problem for tomorrow, and tomorrow can wait." his weight shifts from one foot to the other. "until then, you're uh. you're welcome to stay with me."

"i am?"

hank looks up at him. "yeah." his eyes are honest. "you're family."

family.

connor is his family.

"i'd like that."

.

.

.

(in time, you will be fine.)

.

.

.

spring is nice. it's connor's first spring, and he's spending the first day with anderson and sumo in the park. it's nice. and connor knows that the first day of spring in the northern hemisphere is march 20th on a saturday at 5:58pm. when he tells anderson this, he scoffs. shakes his head. this puzzles connor. "sure, that's what it says in the calendar." anderson says as he kneels down and rubs his calloused hands over sumo's soft fur. "but it's still so fucking cold. it ain't really spring until you feel it."

"feel it." connor asks deadpan. when he gets no response, he's incredulous. he shakes his head. "how do you feel when it's spring."

anderson gestures his hand out, vaguely connor must add, and says, "you'll know it when it comes. it gets warmer. the sun comes out. the birds sing and the flowers bloom. you know, disney movie crap."

connor doesn't know.

not until he feels it. which, in itself, is jarring.

weeks later (but not many) connor is walking sumo early in the morning and without his permission, connor's legs slow to a stop. for a moment he thinks they've stop working. instead of looking down at them to analyze and assess the damage, connor looks up.

soft sunlight filters through bright green leaves swaying in the warm breeze. the sound of crickets (and some locusts) and the very birds that eat them (sparrows, mostly) harmoniously singing together. the sun, the sun, the sun. so warm against connor's skin. and he can't feel it, not physically. but he somehow feels it despite his physical limitations. for once, everything feels so slow. it is illogical to say that connor basks in those sunbeams _forever,_ because he doesn't. it's _not_ forever, that is very impossible and it would be _very_ stupid.

but when he closes his eyes it really does feel like an eternity.

something may be wrong, because he's smiling at nothing.

"i feel spring."

.

.

.

"maybe it's better this way."

.

.

.

it's summer and anderson states for the seventh time this evening how he feels like dying because _goddamn it's so fucking hot, what the hell is up with this shit._

connor goes outside to take the garbage out one night and he sees lampyridae beetles glowing outside. he catches four and brings them inside to show hank. "those are called, uh, fireflies. or lightning bugs. people usually catch them and put them in jars."

"why?"

hank shakes his head. "it's just something you do in the summer."

there are a lot of things people do in the summer. they catch fireflies and put them in jars just to watch them glow. they swim wherever they can: pools, lakes, fountains (they're technically not allowed to swim in those.) they buy overpriced ice cream from trucks, all because of a pavlovian song from its speakers create a sense nostalgia that people can't tear away from their definition of **summer**. they light fireworks, which is very much _illegal_ without specific permits but hank says it's okay, because it's the fourth of july and that's something you do on that day, and it's for fun.

they're nice looking, connor guesses. but what he likes are the small sparklers that he's given that night. connor lights it up and he watches it sparkle inches from his face and he watches it eat up the handle until it's nothing in his hand. he doesn't ask why people do it, even if it's useless. connor likes it, and he decides that he doesn't want to question why.

 **irrational:** the light from the sun and the light from connor's sparkler are both as bright and warm as the feeling they give in connor's chest.

it feels good to let himself think irrationally now and then.

he tells his irrational thought to hank, who laughs and calls connor a sap.

maybe he is.

maybe he laughs too.

okay, he does laugh.

it feels good to laugh.

.

.

.

stressLevel {

                   i really wish we could just skip this altogether

                  }

august comes around and connor tries not to think about it.

anderson muses about connor's "birthday" which is fundamentally a waste of everyone's time and effort because he was never born and even if he was, it wouldn't be the day his model was issued out because that feels _wrong_. anderson does something small anyway; he takes him out to a museum and they enjoy themselves. they talk and joke and laugh and hank tells him about some abridged history with colourful annotations that they don't have the balls to say in history books, and connor tells hank extended facts that are lesser known because of the bias storytelling in american history. 

that's the one good day in august.

connor mostly thinks about daniel for the rest of the month.

"you lied to me, connor." rings in his ears again and again and again. "i trusted you."

did it matter? he was going to hurt that little girl. he killed her father. was he bad? was he wrong? was he justified? was connor wrong? who was wrong? who was right? was that justice? it was for his own good. why did i do that. why couldn't i have done more? why was i so stupid?

machines can't cry the way humans do. but not for a lack of trying. 

(not connor's chassis, anyway.)

.

.

.

god, does he try.

.

.

.

it gets tiring. being alive for so long. who knew it could be so exhausting being a person and being aware of the fact?

occasionally, anderson is working on days that connor isn't. he cleans when he does. not because he has to, but working and occupying the mind soothes his metaphorical nerves.

so connor turns on anderson's loud music and gets to cleaning. he cleans out the junk from the apartment- mail and grocery receipts hank hoards. he mops and vacuums the floors. cleans the windows. every surface is dusted and wiped down. scrubs the grout from the bathroom tiles. cleans all the dog fur off of the furniture, grooms sumo, cleans all the dog fur off the furniture _again_ , does laundry to clean the dog fur off of all of his clothes--

connor rakes the leaves, which is a very fall thing to do, he thinks. it's autumn and the leaves are gold and red and brown because the leaves stop their food-making process and chlorophyll breaks down and the green fades away to show the warm colours underneath that were **always** a part of the leaves. they don't _start_ being red and gold, the green in them just stops blocking the view.

haha.

the third time sumo jumps into the pile of leaves, connor drops to his knees and joins him. laying down on top of that big saint bernard and closing his eyes.

"it's going to get cold out soon." connor mumbles into a belly of fur.

he doesn't fall asleep because he _can't_ fall asleep, but connor loses time and hank finds the two in the same spot that night when he returns home. he yells at them, _what the hell are you doing, connor?_

"i'm enjoying my day off."

hank isn't mad for long after he says that.

(hank wasn't mad at all.)

connor is grateful for that.

(he's grateful for him.)

.

.

.

stressLevel {

              you're allowed to be happy, you know.

                   }

on the anniversary, connor sees markus once again around the same spot they won their war. he sees him for the first time in almost a year and it's scary until markus sees him and smiles. tension melts away and they approach each other. connor holds out his hand to shake, but markus pulls him into a hug and calls him brother.

family, family, family.

androids from all over the city march in celebration rather than protest. they laugh, they sing, they dance.

this is home for them, this is real, this is home. home for all of them to laugh and sing and dance. 

to feel, to live, to be.

to be happy. and mad. and to be sad, if they want to.

that's what they won, that's what they earned. 

connor feels it, but his ~~thirium pump~~ heart lurches. connor would never describe himself as a timid person but that night, he's reserved and watches from afar.

because after everything he's done, does he truly deserve to celebrate his deviancy?

deviant hunter become deviant, but not before hurting people on the way.

he has a good time, but not without unwanted thoughts gnawing at the corners of his mind. it's been awhile since he's checked his software; it might need some cleaning up in there. half of him is afraid of the mess(es) he'll find.

connor returns home (his home, his actual home, with hank and sumo and his family. all his time, and tears, and laughs and the books he took out from the library and the clothes he's bought and the gifts he's given and received and his life because he is alive and he is living.)

hank asks how the anniversary was, but he is not met with an immediate answer. or any answer.

connor's arms wrap tight around hank's torso and he squeezes. he slumps against him. releasing his posture and the face he wears and now he's genuine. comfortable. happy. "thank you." he says.

"for what?"

"for everything." connor says as he places his chin on hank's shoulders. "for helping me find what i was looking for. and letting me stay with you. for being a friend and a father and more." his voice wavers, but hank tightens his grip on him and that anchors connor back down. safe. safe. safe. "i was so scared. i didn't know what to do." he pauses and smiles. laughs, even. "i still am. like i never know what to do. time marches on, and i wonder what i'm going to do tomorrow, if i'm going to wake up and be me another day, and sometimes i'm afraid i won't be able to. but then i do. and it's fine. and i think, i know it's because you gave me the time i needed to be afraid but live anyway.

so thank you. for letting me into your home."

calloused hands thread into connor's synthetic hair, and he feels the steady beat of hank's heart so certainly against his own chest, that he might have mistaken it for his own heartbeat.

hank exhales a breath and connor can hear a smile in his voice. "thank you for making this a home."

home. 

home. 

home.

his home to sing and dance and laugh. his home to feel angry and happy and sad. his home to cry and to clean and to think and to read and to listen to hank's music and to pet sumo and to read and to cook and to paint and watch movies and watch another movie and watch a documentary and five more documentaries about the same thing and cross examine the information and to try to learn how to play an instrument and play it badly and it's okay, because you'll learn and improve and you'll live and you'll grow and you'll feel the sun on your face and ride a bike and write a story or a poem and fix a car and maybe adopt another dog and light some sparklers and catch some bugs and watch some sports and take naps in the autumn leaves and love, love, love and live, live, live. live today, and tomorrow if you can. live because _you are alive and you are living,_  because you're a person and live even if it's scary and live even if you don't know what to do next, even though you were programmed to know. and don't worry, because you can figure that out tomorrow.

but for now, tomorrow can wait.

tomorrow can wait.

 

}

 


End file.
